


Tsuguko

by Rat_In_The_Wall



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!, 鬼滅の刃 | Kimetsu no Yaiba (Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Flames AU, Demon Slayer AU, Gen, Mild Gore, Spoilers, Taisho Period
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-07-25 00:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20023915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rat_In_The_Wall/pseuds/Rat_In_The_Wall
Summary: Tsuna lives an easy life.He is supported by his mother and lives tucked away in a neat corner of a mountain village. He's content. He's comfortable.One evening, he's attacked on his way home....Tsuna is going to die.The clarity in which this thought hits him makes his blood run rabbit-fast. He’s going to die, right here, in the middle of nowhere. No one will know where he died. Everyone will forget his name. Except for his mother, though she so easily forgot his father that he’s sure she’ll forget him, too…A flash. A blade.With a quick flick, metal cuts the air. Reborn saves Tsuna from death.“What luck. You’ll be my Tsuguko."





	1. Pillar of Chaos, Reborn

**大正** **| TAISHO ERA (1912 - 1926) |** **大正**

Tsuna really, really hates the snow.

He especially hates waking up after an overnight blizzard. Everything around him resets – brought back to its basic, blank form of an empty canvas. All that he has come to know is gone, hidden underneath this thick white veil that he can’t remove, and it stretches for miles and miles, as far as the horizon or as high as the sky. If he steps on it, it’s still there, crunched under his shoes or flattened into the white earth. It intrudes his house as a rude, unwelcome guest that drips puddles onto his floor. If summer comes, it melts, but then days meld into months, and it’s back again to ruin his life.

All in all, it never really disappears.

Also, it makes everything look the same. Which is why Tsuna is lost. 

_Normally_ , he’s able to pick up a few indicators that tell him he’s heading the right direction home, like that one tree with blood-red sap, or that abandoned rabbit’s burrow underneath a grassy hill.

But as he turns around, oh look! A white-crusted tree. To his left, a white coating over a fill of land. Further ahead of him, nothing but _white, crunchy ground_. His footsteps disappear quickly underneath a new layer of falling snow, concealing all traces of his existence. The feeling of making no progress and walking in circles does little to ease the tremble in his body. A tremble that is only half due to the cold.

He should have been home a while ago. Approximately while the sun was still flaring her incessant rays across the endless blue. Now, _now_ , the sun seems to be teetering on the edge of collapse over the horizon, which plunges everything around Tsuna into shadows and silhouettes. He’s constantly turning every five seconds to check his back, even though nothing dangerous would even try wiggle its way up this mountain without retreating due to the ridiculously thin air. Also, because _literally_ no one lives up here. The other village boys have already gone down the mountain to arrogantly pursue _more_ , while Tsuna begrudgingly remains part of this tiny village because he isn’t quite ready to leave the care of his mother.

Why did his mother choose to move even further from civilisation then, by living on the outskirts of the village? Why are they buried so thick in the woods? These are questions Tsuna should’ve asked his mother long ago, but just like his curfew, he never quite manages to muster the ability to make ends meet.

Ah, drat. The sun is down. Everything is black. Great – an unwelcome change in scenery is exactly what he needs to feel secured. The complete extraction of warmth sends his body into a tense, prolonged shiver that ends with his teeth chattering. Now that he can’t see where he’s going…how will he get home? He clasps his hands together, sends a quick prayer to his mother, who is no doubt warming the bamboo stew she promised for dinner, and swallows his fear. Unfortunately, not in its entirety, because it re-emerges in the form of anxious vomit. He can tell it’s mostly water – that’s because he dropped his lunch in the snow a while back. It consumed his food like a wild animal.

Ah, he’s hungry! He wants his mother’s cooking! He wants his house back! Snowy days are awful.

 _SNAP_!

Tsuna’s mental cries plummet into silence. He draws in a sharp, noiseless inhale that infects his lungs with frost. His heart pounds a bruise against his ribcage. 

That was absolutely not Tsuna.

He has not done as much as lift a leg after the sky became dark, so he can say with absolute certainty that the telling snap of a twig is not because of him. Unfortunately, behind that revelation lingers a question that Tsuna doesn’t want to confront.

If it wasn’t him, then who?

* * *

_“You’re so useless, Dame-Tsuna. At this rate, you’ll get swallowed up by a demon for sure!” said Ryuji, twelve, and departing the village in two days. “One big gulp and you’ll disappear without a sound – no one will hear you and no one will miss you!”_

_Miko snickered in childish amusement. “Yeah! A boy who can’t chop wood or hunt is useless in this village! The demon_ should _eat you! The air is thin enough without you inhaling all of_ our _hard-earned oxygen!”_

_Tsuna rubbed his running nose in frustration. Tears prickled on the tips of his eyes, colder than the surface of a winter lake. His knees buckle and his teeth chatter, as the two children frolic around with the new haori his mother sewed him. If it wasn’t cold – if it wasn’t snowing, he’d let them take it and ask for another one. A croak tumbles from his throat, but all words are robbed by the wind. He wants to go home…_

* * *

The sounds of roaring laughter and degenerative snarls fade from his ears, and Tsuna slips back to reality. Why did he remember that joke of an ordeal? The boys are gone already – their deluded wishes of his death long ago tucked into an untouched crevice of his mind. 

_Demon_.

The word hisses across his skin like the graze of a cattle whip. His body ignites with a heat that simmers in the marrow of his bones. His heart pounds a war drum.

That’s ridiculous. Those were rumours the village humoured as a source of entertainment. The children picked it up and used it as threats to scare him. He’s too paranoid in the dark – there’s nothing behind him; he’ll prove it by turning around-

Tsuna almost shits himself.

_RUN._

His knees buckle and his throat tears itself open in a soundless cry. He collapses backwards into the snow.

_RUN._

The thing before him stares with blood-dripping fangs and eyes blacker than the night it embodies. It does nothing but stare silently; there’s a curve to its face, like it’s almost amused.

_GET UP._

Tsuna scrambles to his feet and trips to his left as the animal swings an arm at him. Claws whistle and tear apart at the air where he previously was. He fumbles into a clumsy sprint. He dodges behind the nearest tree as the animal snarls at his escape. Its claw misses him by his lashes. His feet scurries towards further coverage. A desperate, choking plead rips out of his throat. He could lose it in the forest, he just needs to-

His toe catches the hidden root of a tree and he tumbles to the ground, knocking his teeth. The creature sees its chance and advances upon him. The thing creaks and groans as it clambers its crooked gait. Its fangs stretch across the expanse of its head, as its mouth is pulled back in unadulterated, ravenous glee.

_“One big gulp.”_

The animal is upon him. It snags his leg with a hasty claw and drags him from the ground.

Tsuna is going to die.

The clarity in which this thought hits him makes his blood run rabbit-fast. He’s going to die, right here, in the middle of nowhere. No one will know where he died. Everyone will forget his name. Except for his mother, though she so easily forgot his father that he’s sure she’ll forget him, too…

A guttural scream erupts from the throat of the animal.

Tsuna falls to the ground. Frost crunches beneath his back. A warm, viscous liquid splatters across his cheek. He scrambles to his knees, feet kicking away at the snow to enlarge the distance between him and his captor.

A flash. A blade.

A thump, and the animal’s head lays on the ground before his feet like an offer to a prayer. A tremor shakes the very skeleton of his body and lingers its welcome. The liquid on Tsuna’s cheek burns with unnatural heat. When he reaches to touch it, it’s gone.

The blade that cut the beast drips blood like a fang. With a quick flick, metal cuts the air. Blood from the blade is cast upon the snow and sinks with dangerous contamination, however, that, too, dissipates into the winter air, leaving no traces of its presence.

Tsuna traces the blade’s vector to its wielder. Ironically, it is the master of the sword that works his throat into a scream, not the animal.

Dressed in pitch black uniform is a beast with hooked fangs and a treacherous grin, the red of its skin darker than the blood it had drawn. The crooked half-moon of its horns leers an oath of death. 

Tsuna slips on the snow as he struggles to stand. He yells a garbled mess that is half a prayer and half a cry for help.

With baleful leisure, the beast peels off its face and-

“The mountain will collapse if you continue screaming,” its true visage derides.

Tsuna staggers to his feet. His knees tremble. A man. There’s a man beneath the face, with unfathomable black eyes. His cheekbones are so accentuated he looks as if he has not eaten in a week. He pushes the red face back, and when Tsuna catches sight of its white underside, he realises it’s a mask.

The man tucks his oni mask atop of his hair. He raises a thin brow. “The demon has passed. Why are you still scared?" 

Tsuna’s next exhale comes out ragged and visible. “D-Demon? Th-That was a demon?” His voice halfway through the sentence turns into an uncontrollable shriek.

The man scoffs bemusedly. “You have my welcome. Tell me, why are you out when it’s dark? Especially here, in isolation.”

Tsuna’s throat ripples in lieu of an answer. Tears dither on the surface of his eyes. Demons were a story used to scare mis-behaving children. They were an excuse for ruined crops; for bad luck. They weren’t meant to be _real_.

The man sighs. He pulls the mask back on, and uneasiness places a wintry hand on Tsuna’s back. 

“Stay at home when the moon rises. For my sake and yours,” the man grumbles. He sheathes his sword with irritated movement. “Climbing this slope for one kill is not worth my time.” He turns, as softly and silently as the falling snow. 

“Wait!” Tsuna cries. He doesn’t know the way home, what if he’s attacked again? By…by something? Something that is not a ‘demon’, because those things don’t exist!

Surprisingly, the man humours him by crooking a head. His hand rests on his sheathed blade – a warning. ‘ _Be quick,’_ it demands.

“You need to help me get home!” Tsuna urges. His hands quiver for solid support. He clutches onto the trunk of a tree. “The-There’s no way I’m getting there by myself!”

Tsuna can’t see the man’s reaction, but the lock of his frame indicates that Tsuna misjudged his patience. Tsuna braces himself to prostrate upon the snow – if this man is wealthy enough for a uniform and blade of that quality, he must be from a respected background.

“What is that, on your neck?” the man asks instead.

Tsuna’s hand, without thought, moves to touch lightly at the blight beneath his ear. The skin there is coarse and dry – in the winter, it occasionally bleeds. 

“I dropped mother’s boiling pot on my right side when I was young. I was trying to grab a spoon,” Tsuna recalls. It was so long ago – he can hardly remember the pain, just a persistent numbness that fouled even his brain. It’s faint and pink on normal days, but when his heart starts racing, the pigment grows darker.

“You have a mark,” the man states. He advances as if swept by a gale. “That’s a mark. Why do you have one?”

Tsuna scrambles backwards – the man’s presence all too looming and thick with disorientation. “I-I just told you. I dropped-”

The man snatches Tsuna’s arm and maintains a grip that isn’t painful and isn’t considerate. He stares intently at Tsuna’s neck. It’s set aflame by his concentrated gaze, even hidden behind the mask.

“A mark,” the man eventually finalises. He releases Tsuna’s arm, but his stance – one ready to draw his sword – stops Tsuna from escaping. “What luck. You’ll be my Tsuguko.”

Tsuna scans the darkness for a way out. This can’t be happening. The guy is crazy! First, he undauntingly and _ruthlessly_ decapitates an…an animal, then he _mocks_ Tsuna, then non-verbally threatens to _kill him_! What is a ‘Tsuguko’, anyways? This is too much. Tsuna wants to go home. He’s hungry, he’s tired, and he’ll never step outside again.

“N-No! I don’t want to associate with you! I just want to go home!” Tsuna gripes.

The man huffs. “So whiny…I’ll leave you be then.” His sword clicks back into its sheath, and he starts of towards the base of the mountain.

Tsuna scurries after him. “W-Wait! Wait, you have to help me get home!”

The man doesn’t turn, choosing to speak to the air instead. “I thought you said you didn’t want to associate with me.”

Tsuna scowls, but the man doesn’t see it, with his back turned. “I don’t!” he exclaims. His arms flail in frustration. “I don’t know you! But you h-helped me before, so I want you to help me once more!”

Tsuna digs his heels into the ground when the man turns languidly with irate forewarning. “I don’t do charity work, kid. I am the _Pillar of Chaos_ ; I’m worth more than you can pay with your life.”

As the man hisses ‘Pillar of Chaos’, the blood in Tsuna hums a waking call from a long slumber and his bones thrum in unanimous resonation, eliciting a response in him that is both foreign and familiar. His mind is both simultaneously plunged into oil and dipped into an icy lake – he feels everything with immense emotional clarity and rationale, to the extent where he’s almost blinded by the stimulus. Tsuna welcomes the unfamiliar presence and watches as it chases his fear away and replaces it with newfound irritation – irritation for the man before him.

“Do you say that to others as well? That their lives are worth less than your title?” Tsuna demands, propelled by a parochial force. “My life may mean nothing, but I can’t say the same for any other person. It’s a shameful mentality – if you believe the value of your title be so great that you would put it above a life, perhaps you don’t deserve it at all.”

In a blink the man’s hand snaps to the hilt of his sword. He takes a step forward, his foot-falls invisible and silent. The oni mask scowls as if it was its own wicked lifeform. “Do not dare be arrogant,” the man states, “when you are still selfish and young and stupid. You do not know a _thing_ about the life you’re about to live. If I had not arrived when I did, your being would serve no purpose other than to fertilise the very ground I tread on. You would perish before the hands of a drunken ex-samurai or by the claws of a _demon_. You would be another casualty. Do _not_ be arrogant with me if you are ignorant of your own flaws.”

The mark on Tsuna’s neck – a permanent flame stretching from his collarbone to ear _flares_ in retort. His lips peel open, but the haze and heat of his mind retreat, cowering before the man’s shadow. Tsuna recoils, his warm calmness gone with the race of his blood. His pulse beats unsteadily in his ears, _‘obey’_ it whispers, before fading into silence. Tsuna shivers, in fear and cold.

“You’re right! Sorry for troubling you!” Tsuna squeaks, the hidden gaze of the man like a dagger to his throat.

Without waiting to gauge the man’s reaction, as he fears the result, he stumbles up the slope. When he sneaks a glance back, the man is gone, not even a footstep or shadow left as a reminder of his existence. 

Tsuna continues his trek. The man must’ve been a mirage or a winter-induced delusion of some kind. The animal as well. Tsuna fumbles up an unstable slope. Snow crumples beneath his feet and tumble down the mountain before he can properly catch his footing. He takes another two steps before he slips again. This is horrible; the ground moves as if opposed to being stepped on. He’ll never get home before dinner – possibly not even before the sun rises. 

_SNAP!_

Tsuna did not hear that. He’ll continue on – without worry, because _nothing_ makes its way willingly up the mountain. ‘ _The animal and man were visages,’_ he hums happily to himself.

_CRUNCH!_

Tsuna bolts. It’s the fastest he’s ever ran – he clambers over roots, slips through the snow, ducks under low branches, guided by his relentless, fear-fuelled legs. He sneaks a peek over his shoulder…

…and nearly faints on his feet.

“Help me!” he yells, because he does not care who he wakes; he’s hoping he’ll wake _himself_ up from this horrible nightmare and open his eyes to the comfort of his room.

The animal behind him snarls a fiendish echo.

He dashes around the snowy bed of a tree, consumed with lament and sobbing breath. From its shadow steps a man that Tsuna runs into.

The man grunts and his feet retreat unbalanced. In a second, Tsuna thinks they will tumble to the ground, but the man draws a steady stance and holds Tsuna tightly. When Tsuna looks up at his face, he realises that he is a boy, not a man. Something akin to surprise and familiarity flashes across his gaze, before he pushes Tsuna behind him.

The animal, frothing at the mouth, clambers with voracious desperation towards them. Tsuna cries out, reaching to pull the boy to a further distance, but the boy assumes a stance that pushes himself out of Tsuna’s reach.

He draws his sword with confidence in practice and exhales white mist. 

“ _Breath of Water, First Style: Water Surface Slice.”_

Released from its sheath, the blade scratches against the air, eliciting the sound of water pounding against rocks in a river. The air grows cold with the draw of the sword. The boy rushes forward, water slipping by the plentiful on the tip of his blade, and he strikes. The water, a blue, delicate ribbon, follows the blade quickly and collates with the attack. 

In a fluid and smooth motion, the animal is decapitated and its torso body crumples to the ground. A second later its head follows, burying into the snow.

The water that is not merged with his blade sprinkles down from the slice, an illusion of gentle rain. The boy sheathes his sword, then he turns and smiles. It’s a small, unsure smile.

Tsuna finds his throat dry. He stumbles for stable footing. “Wh-What…” he starts but finds himself unsure of what to say.

The boy glides towards Tsuna, his steps as fluid and unbroken as a spring river. “Are you hurt?” he inquires, before stopping at an unnaturally far distance for conversation.

Tsuna is working his voice into something audible when a form drops from the tree he is under. He screeches uncontrollably, anxious and uneasy from the new introductions to his orthodox life, and the figure that fell from the tree stands to form the shape of a man – a man Tsuna has seen before. 

“It-It’s you!” Tsuna yells with accusation.

The man brushes snow off his uniform, unperturbed. “So, your screaming _did_ attract another one,” he states. “Usually, people learn their lessons after being attacked _once_ by a demon. You look like you’re still failing to comprehend.”

Tsuna flushes, his skin burns against the unforgiving air of winter. “I thought I said that I didn’t want to associate with you!” 

The man scoffs. He turns to stare at Tsuna directly, though his gaze is concealed by his mask. “I wanted to see what you were capable of. Apparently, I was too hopeful – you really are useless,” he states. Tsuna tenses, thinking of the village boys and his ruined haori, but the man continues speaking. “For now, that is. Unless you choose to become my Tsuguko, you’ll remain like this for the rest of your life – purposeless and dependent on the work of your parents.”

Tsuna recoils, as if the man holds a blade to his body. The boy watches their exchange with vague curiosity, though unprompted, he is silent.

Tsuna has a mother to return to. An unproblematic, modest life with the person he cares most about. Despite his complaints about the distance, their reclusive home provides a quiet shelter tucked away in the safety of the woods. Tsuna is comfortable – he’s content. Why, by a twist chance of fate, does everything have to change now? “I refuse,” he states.

“Yamamoto Takeshi is my student, temporarily,” the man says, ignoring Tsuna. He gestures towards the boy. Yamamoto waves in delayed greeting. “Therefore, his actions are an extension of mine. He saved your life as I did previously, which means I fought death for you _twice_. It is polite to offer your body and soul in return for what I have done, isn’t it, Takeshi?”

The boy grins unpleasantly, like a wolf. His flicks his sword from its sheath with his thumb. “Of course, Master. If he refuses, that means I can kill him, right?”

Tsuna flinches. Yamamoto’s blade – its screeching release from its sheath and its easy slice against bone and flesh pierce through his mind. Yamamoto’s form indicates months or years of practise. Even from this distance, if he runs, he’ll never make it. Tsuna trembles, unable to move. The situation is entirely unjust – he never wanted this. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time… 

He wants to go home.

Tsuna doesn’t realise he’s crying until he sniffles. Tears blind him from vision of the two before him and chase away the hot indignance left in his cheeks.

“Fine,” he says, voice watery and broken. “I’ll do it. Just…let me go home.”

For once, there is silence. It prevails like miasma, thick and humid in the air.

Eventually, the man speaks, and there is a smile in his voice. “What is your name?”

Tsuna exhales shakily and roughly wipes the tears from his eyes. “Sawada. Sawada Tsunayoshi.”

The man faces Tsuna. His uniform is picked up by a passing gale. “I am Reborn.”


	2. Familial Care

The snow prevails – a near-blizzard in its ferocious dance against his raw skin. Sawada’s haori flaps a distressed cry of pale orange as the white washes out his fabric. He looks like he’s drowning.

Yamamoto is centimetres – a mere fingertip’s touch away from Sawada’s hunched back, yet they seem distances – worlds away. After his third attempt at talking, he allowed his words to be swallowed up by the faceless wind and for silence to take its place as an indiscriminate barrier that looms before them both.

Sawada looks as if he is going to fade – to disappear into a flake of white before him as he blends into the background as the orange entirely shrivels of recognisable colour…which is odd, because when Yamamoto first lay his eyes on Sawada, he was so unbelievably vibrant and full of an untarnished emotion that could not be smothered by his clothes or skin.

And his eyes. Sawada’s eyes that swirled with tendrils of colour that could not be reduced to the thick cage of his brown irises. Yamamoto had never seen eyes like that before.

Only he has. He has and he can’t seem to remember where from. They were eyes of the pooling surface of a lake that reflected the skies of summer days…Sawada has the exact same eyes. Maybe they’re the same person?

“Sawada, have we met before?”

Before he gets the chance to answer, Sawada’s feet slide from beneath him as he callously stumbles up a slope. Yamamoto’s arm shoots out to grab him.

* * *

A slice as quick as a torrent and ruthlessness as cold as ice.

Tsuna steadies himself before Yamamoto can reach him. His heart pounds a pulse that reverberates his eardrums. Tsuna recalls the blade that hand held not too long ago, and he shivers.

“Are you alright?”

His breath is released shaky and tangible. Tsuna draws his back further from reach. “I’m fine,” he replies, quick enough that his lips snap over his words before they’re fully exposed to the air. Tsuna purposely lets the previous question remain unanswered. He definitely would recall meeting someone like Yamamoto – someone who spikes his blood with liquid ice and drowns his throat with lake water all in a simple, curious gaze. Was Yamamoto always like this? A deceptively smooth iceberg tip, unnoticeable and meagre in nature until it rips apart the hull of a ship?

“Do you know where we’re going?”

 _“We’re”_ he says, like they’re a group. Like they know each other. Like they’re-

“I thought Reborn made you escort me because you know ways around this mountain,” Tsuna says. He knees crack as he struggles to climb a steep patch of ground. His chest heaves. Every inhale bitterly itches his lungs. The rising snow-storm stops him from seeing much beyond his nose.

Yamamoto laughs, his voice besting the wind and the numbing sleet it carries. “Unfortunately, I’m bad with directions, too! I’m just here to make sure you don’t die.”

Tsuna wants to cry at the irony of the statement. He knows Yamamoto has a hand hovering near his blade – a precaution if Tsuna choses the option of escaping his situation. Instead of pointing it out, Tsuna continues uphill, ignoring the cold biting at his ankles and the beast lingering at his back. The faster he moves, the less he talks and the quicker he’ll find his way home.

He would rather go with Reborn. While it is not a comment on the man’s skills or a question of his capabilities to strike him down, Reborn makes for a less incriminating presence than Yamamoto. Reborn, though the one leading the parade with a felonious smirk, has a consciousness radiating discipline and long-woven decrepit.

Yamamoto, though, seems _unsatisfied_. He is raw, exposed, his skin peeled back and waiting for _something_. He is unfettered by the downpour, and instead revels in it. Tsuna is _scared of him_.

As Tsuna begins to take longer strides to stretch their too-short distance, Yamamoto cries out. When Tsuna glances back, he’s confronted with the grin of a wolf.

“Dame-Tsuna!”

Tsuna freezes. His legs turn rigid and abruptly consume all intended movement. Innate with infection, the cold works its way up his back until it has a claw around his neck. Not a breath escapes him. Yamamoto takes his silence as an indication to continue.

“I knew I’ve seen you somewhere! You’re Dame-Tsuna! Why did you leave Namimori?”

Tsuna shoulders rise to his ears. Yamamoto’s words knock off his skull and collide into a muddle of incoherence. He doesn’t attempt to decipher the implications of what Yamamoto said. He continues into the sleet, hoping it will bury his body and his memory into that blank, white slate it’s so boastful of.

“Oh, hey! Wait up!”

Tsuna shifts through the snow, unhindered by Yamamoto’s cries. His stomach caves with an emptiness unlike hunger. He wants to throw up again.

_How does he know?_

The question follows Tsuna with such heaviness that, even when he sees the soft glow of his house peeking from between the howls of the wind, he can’t quite shake its drag on his heels. He turns around, expecting Yamamoto to give some audible cue of understanding so he can _leave_ , but the swordsman has his head tilted to the sky, facing the falling snow. Small specks of white flakes sit on his lashes, yet he doesn’t blink, unperturbed by their harmless, delicate presence. Standing like this, Yamamoto’s presence is surprisingly placid, despite the aggression of his blade. Tsuna quickly turns before they can make eye-contact.

“You can leave,” Tsuna says. It comes out curt, but he doesn’t have enough remorse to draw it back.

He hears the shifting of Yamamoto’s haori as he breaks his breathless stagnancy. “Is that your home?”

“Yeah. Go back to Reborn,” Tsuna insists.

Yamamoto takes a step forward and reaches out for Tsuna’s shoulder. Tsuna stumbles back and ignores the ripple that disrupts Yamamoto’s normally tranquil expression. Nevertheless, Yamamoto continues, brushing off the incident.

“It’s only a little further! Let me walk you the rest of the way.”

_No! What makes you think I want you with me any longer?_

Is what Tsuna wants to say. Instead, he makes an incoherent sound and trails up the path towards the light in the woods. As he gets closer, the layer of cold that settled on his skin begins to peel off. His feet bounce off the snow. His joints move with newfound ease. In just a few steps, Tsuna is at the door and is throwing it open.

The scent of bamboo soup wraps him with impossible warmth. As Tsuna steps across the threshold of his home, the howl of the forming blizzard dissipates into soft brushes of air against his ears. The white that clings to Tsuna’s haori flakes off and disperses into the yellow light of Tsuna’s home. He hears the tapping of small footsteps bouncing lightly down the hallway. His heart swells to his throat.

Nana’s head pops out from behind the sliding door. “Ah! Tsuna!”

By some miracle, Tsuna holds his tears behind his eyes. He sniffles fiercely. His mother’s face contorts slightly with worry and paces over to pat away the lingering cold on his cheeks with warm hands.

“Oh Tsuna, you must’ve been so cold, out there by yourself! Come with mother next time, okay?” she says, tone soft and understanding and everything Tsuna’s never noticed before. He melts into her hands. He brings up his arms to lightly settle his trembling fingers on her thin wrists.

“I’m home,” he whispers, his breath sharing the air they reside in, his voice for them and them alone.

His mother smiles, the curve of her lips so benign and gentle Tsuna almost breaks down right there, with his face cradled by tender hands and his turmoil subdued with sympathetic worry. His mother tilts her head to glance at something behind him.

“Is that a friend?” she asks, her voice rimmed with a tinkle bordering on excitement.

Tsuna whips around, abruptly cutting off the warmth of his mother’s hands. Exposed to the air, his skin quickly drains of colour. Yamamoto lingers at the open door, eyes blown wide and hands gripping the frame with an unconscious strength. When Tsuna catches his eye, Yamamoto quickly eases his tension and sinks into an almost motionless lull – as still and calm as the surface of a lake. He offers a small smile. A small, unsure smile.

The change of the current is too abrupt. Tsuna makes to question Yamamoto’s fluctuating demeanour but is cut off by his mother’s interjection.

“Oh, you brought a friend! I’m so happy for you, Tsuna!” his mother exclaims, clapping modestly with glee. Her smile grows wider.

Tsuna watches as a ripple disrupts Yamamoto’s passive smile.

“He’s not a friend, Ma,” he quickly adds, before she gets ahead of herself. He glances at the floor, not wanting to see whatever expression Yamamoto is wearing.

Nana steps past him, the implied unpleasantness of the situation flying straight by her. “Don’t be shy, Tsuna! I know a friend when I see one! Come in sweetie, it must be cold out there!” she says amiably, moving to push the door wider so Yamamoto can step in with ease.

Tsuna watches as Yamamoto’s face contorts with temptation, undulating across the surface of his skin, breaking his balanced expression.

 _He’s hesitating,_ Tsuna thinks, then decides to throw a rock into the open lake. “He was actually leaving, Ma. Don’t worry.”

Startled into reality, Yamamoto steps back, into the blizzard and howling winds. The smile on his face slips into something automatic and polite. “Yeah, sorry, Sawada-san. I gotta get home, or my old man will flip! Haha!” He drops his hand from the door frame and curls his fingers into the sides of his haori. “Thanks for the offer.”

Tsuna’s mother reaches out to protest, but Yamamoto evanesces into the snow like a spectre – mere imagination of what was once the body of a young boy. His mother glances out into the blizzard, searching for a trance of his linger, but to no avail.

“I hope he’s alright out there,” she says. She slowly and hesitantly shuts the door.

Once the cold is shut out, the warmth stops escaping through the door and instead swirls around Tsuna’s knees, causing them to tremble as he struggles not to sink to the floor. Tsuna’s mother glances at him and her eyes droop with worry.

“Oh, you must be so hungry, Tsuna!” she says. She hooks an arm underneath his shoulder and attempts to heft him towards the kitchen. “Let’s have some bamboo soup! That’ll fill you!” 

Tsuna quickly removes his shoes before he’s pulled from the door by his mother. The smell of the soup becomes almost tangible as Tsuna slumps into the thin cushion. He folds his legs politely and watches as his mother spoons soup into a small bowl of rice. His trembling fingers immediately find comfort in the warmth of the bowl.

“Thank you, Ma,” he offers. He stares down into his meal – watching the steam rise and flush away the coldness of winter on his cheeks. He takes in the distinct scent of the salty soup and tangy bamboo roots. He has yet to pick up his chopsticks as his mother fills her own bowl.

“Tsuna?” she questions. She gently lays her chopsticks down and tilts her head in an attempt to search his face. “What’s wrong? Isn’t this your favourite?”

His hands cup the bowl with care uncharacteristic of his hunger. When his fingertips touch, they hold no warmth. “It is, Ma. It looks…good.”

It does. It looks fantastic – set out exactly the way Tsuna likes it, with the bamboo roots peeking out from underneath the rice, the brown, thickness of the soup swirling with texture, and filled to the rim for the rest of the dry contents to slowly soak in…His stomach growls, yet he can’t move his hands to satisfy that need.

This may be his very last home-cooked meal. His last time in his kitchen. His last moment with his mother.

She is patient – silently waiting for Tsuna to fill in the blanks of her missing knowledge. Tsuna exhales, loudly, sharply and stridently, as unshed tears lead to a clot in his throat. He cannot cry now. If Tsuna shows discomfort before being pulled away from home, his mother would definitely not allow him to go willingly – which would make their separation all the more noxious. If she protests strongly, who knows what they would do to her…

Tsuna eventually manages to breathe with small control over his distress. “Ma, I have a…”

_“A job. Call it a job – I need you to fulfil a very important task,” Reborn says, as the snow billows in irregular temperament behind him. “You’ll be away from home for a long time. Pack tonight, lightly. I’ll see you in the morning.”_

“I have a job. I’ll be gone…for a while,” he states. He can’t force himself to say ‘forever’. That would surely rip the final seams holding his chest together.

Nana claps her hands with fruitful joy. “Oh, that’s wonderful! I’m happy for you! It seems like I’ll have to cook single meals until you come back, then. When will you be leaving?”

Tsuna casts his eyes to the ground. They weigh like stones, dragged down by the body of unshed tears. “Tomorrow,” he says. A tremble slips into his throat. Tsuna clamps his lips shut and he swallows painfully through the lump there.

“How exciting!” his mother gushes. “I’ll help you pack later! Oh, my Tsuna has grown so much without his mother’s notice!”

Tsuna grits his teeth, unable to refute his mother’s declaration. Tsuna hasn’t grown at all – he’s still as the same small, terribly benighted child dragged from Namimori six years ago. The mountain – a complete change in atmosphere in comparison to Nami’s sloping valleys and gentle grassy fields did _nothing_ to develop him. This _job_ isn’t him improving – it’s him tumbling into another calamitous mess like the one that occurred six years ago.

Tsuna doesn’t want this – he never wanted this. He was finding peace in near-isolation, all the company he ever needed coming from his mother. He was stupid to think a change in location would scrape the pernicious affliction that follows him like an illness. Once again, Tsuna is leaving, but without his mother, this time.

Maybe it’s for the better.

Nana had to pick everything up for Tsuna. She abandoned her home town, the very village was born and raised in, in order to follow Tsuna’s detrimental spiral. Yeah, maybe it is better that she settles down with ease, for once.

Tsuna will miss her, terribly.

“Ma,” he starts, tongue thick in his mouth. He waits for her gentle ‘hmm’ before he continues. “If I leave…and don’t come back for years…” Tsuna’s hands tremble uncontrollably. Words ravel in his throat, pushing and pushing, sinking his weight into the floor. What he manages to force out almost dissipates into the air, however, with the silence of the room, they strike out like a whip crack. “Or if I never come back, will you remember me?”

He can’t bring himself to look up. His neck is laden with a burden unfamiliar to him – perhaps it’s the accumulation of the guilt, tribulations and…his tiredness.

Warm fingers cup his cheek. With gentle strength, his mother lifts his head. Tsuna follows her movement in trance. When he locks eyes with her, he sees a deep, old sadness within. Tsuna almost flinches, because for a moment, they seem to reflect his own.

“Of course I’ll remember you, silly! Every day, Ma will think of your messy hair, your lazy slouch, and your cute button nose!” She bops his nose for emphasis. “I’m sure you’re away for good reason, just like your father!”

Tsuna startles. “You…you remember Dad?”

Nana’s gaze turns bewildered. “Yes, I love your father, Tsuna. I know you think your father abandoned us, but he didn’t! He told me he was leaving for a job, and would be gone for a long time, just as you are now. He didn’t abandon us.”

Tsuna wants to ask about the static silence – about why she never openly talked about him until now. He wants to ask his mother a lot of things. Why a mountain. Why they get no relative visitors. Why she sounds so unsure. Why, why, why.

“He was really happy, you know,” she continues. She’s not looking at Tsuna, instead, her eyes are cast down, at her hands. Tsuna knows she stopped talking to him a while ago. “When we had you, I remember he cried a lot more than I did!”

There’s a small clatter as Nana picks up her chopsticks and resumes eating. Tsuna gazes down at his bowl, wanting to follow suit, but his hands remain pinned to the wood of his dinner table. ‘ _Were you happy you had me?’_ he wants to ask. Instead, he takes a shaky breath.

“I’ll miss you,” he whispers.

His mother’s eyes shine above the rim of her bowl. “I’ll miss you, too.”

* * *

Tsuna wakes uncomfortably. The strained ache in his body makes it tiresome to continue lying on his futon. As he sits, his eyes immediately float to the small shoulder carry-bag placed near the door. Last night, they packed one set of spare clothes and some small snacks. Yamamoto mentioned that they would be walking a fair bit, so Tsuna should try to bring the bare minimum.

The bag is wrapped with colourful orange fabric. It’s vibrant and so painfully resonates his mother’s touch that Tsuna’s chest already aches with sentiment and loss. He feels a lump burn its way up his throat and his face flush unpleasantly. Before he experiences the result, he stands and slips on his folded haori. It appears more washed out than usual, but his mother’s delicate and bright stitches add splatters of light. Tsuna gently nudges a seam. He hopes it doesn’t fray.

He spends slow, silent moments cleaning and gathering what’s left of himself. When he steps out into the kitchen, his mother is already there, watching the snow fall sluggishly from out a window. Her arms are clenched tightly around her stomach.

Tsuna rests his bag at the front door and shifts in his haori. “Good morning, Ma,” he calls out softly.

Nana drops her arms and turns around with a supportive, wide smile. “Good morning, Tsuna! Are you excited? Oh no, you didn’t brush your hair, did you?”

Tsuna lets her rush over and fret over his appearance. She fixes his haori, smooths out his pants, and runs her fingers through the knots in his hair. Tsuna notices that she has to reach up a little. When did that happen?

She is gently tugging stubborn tangles when there is a knock at the door. They both freeze.

Moments pass in rigid silence. Tsuna’s heart drops to his feet. He reaches out for his mother – he doesn’t want to go, he doesn’t want to leave her, he doesn’t want to-

His mother steps away and goes to answer the door. Though he is inside, Tsuna shakes down to his knees as all warmth fades with his mother’s distancing steps. Tsuna exhales a wet, sobbing breath as the door opens.

“Good morning, Sawada-san!” Yamamoto cheers.

Nana takes too long to reply, so she eventually settles for a smile. Tsuna’s chest compresses with alarming vehemence.

Yamamoto either ignores or choses not to question the density in the air. “I’m here for your son. Sorry for making you both wake so early- Sawada?”

Tsuna strides towards the door and reaches out to grip Yamamoto’s arms. Tsuna sees the blatant confusion quickly morph into something almost instinctual and animal as Yamamoto falls into a familiar stance and reaches for his blade.

 _CALM YOURSELF_.

Tsuna abruptly reigns in his panic and glower by relaxing his grip. Almost immediately, Yamamoto follows and stops his fluid motion, dropping into his initial, habitual state. His eyes are blown open. His mouth shapes a question, but Tsuna cuts him off.

“Please, Yamamoto, let me stay. Don’t take me away from my mother,” he whispers, voice cracking and shuddering with all the force he couldn’t project yesterday. He clenches his hands into Yamamoto’s haori as silent sobs rack his body.

Yamamoto falters. His hands hover stiffly, unsure of what they’re meant to do. A turmoil of conflict strikes against his expression and his eyes dilate as he grapples for words to say.

“I’m sorry, Sawada, I-”

Tsuna almost sobs another ‘ _please_ ’ but he stops when he finally looks directly into Yamamoto’s eyes.

Flat, motionless and still. The surface of a lake that consumes and pollutes all that touches it. Those eyes won’t yield.

Tsuna shoves Yamamoto away. Yamamoto almost stumbles but Tsuna knows he won’t fall, so he turns without lament to face his mother. She throws him a questioning gaze as she scans Tsuna’s red eyes.

“I’m going to miss you,” Tsuna says as an excuse.

She smiles, and for the first time in years, it reveals the little bit of sadness that always lingers on her shoulders.

Tsuna pulls his mother in for an embrace. It’s warm, comfortable, and shreds his shattered heart. He has to leave soon, but he’ll remember this feeling forever – their shelter, formed for just the two of them as they brace their backs against the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like bamboo soup.


End file.
